


sunshine on the other side (i promise, i promise)

by sawuhs



Category: James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-01
Updated: 2012-12-01
Packaged: 2017-11-20 01:04:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/579601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sawuhs/pseuds/sawuhs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>He wakes up to an empty bed.</em>
  <br/>
  <em>The one thing bright and clear in his head: Four hours, twenty-three minutes, and eight seconds.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	sunshine on the other side (i promise, i promise)

“We’ll go tomorrow,” James tells him, but there are a hundred and one reasons why Q has learned to only take James’ words lightly. It’s safer this way, Q tells himself. Words like these from a lover tend to carry promises, but promises aren’t exactly what James can carry out, what with being an MI6 agent and all.

He used to believe in promises the way most innocent lovers would, but that was a long time ago. These days, he nods and says “okay,” and doesn’t blink an eye whenever James’ promises don’t meet the end. It’s safer this way, he keeps telling himself. Nothing to be hurt when no expectations are made. And if the promises do meet their end, then Q will let himself cherish it.

x

“Q?”

He notices but doesn’t answer, not until M, and M is for Mallory, waves a hand in his face.

“Yes, sir,” Q replies, finally. He pretends as if his eyes are occupied by the screen before him, though he really doesn’t need to look at it to do what he does.

No room for errors to be made in his head. Not when there are lives on the line.

“You shall be looking after 007 for this upcoming mission.” He’s handed a file; a file that has ‘Top Secret’ stamped, large, bold, and red.

He nods and M walks away.  He doesn’t smile, inside or out.

x

Most days, he speaks when he’s prompted to, or when he has to. He much prefers the quiet observation; his thumb pressing down hard on his bottom lip that he bites as he thinks and _thinks._ He doesn’t care if the slip of his thumb causes him to bite his lip far too hard.

Some days, with his eyes darting from side to side in thought, he speaks as if it’s his last. There’ll always be something more to say about an idea, or a witty remark to be made. He doesn’t care if all they hear is from him is static or white noise.

With James, it’s always some of most days, or most of some days.

x

“We’re here,” James says. The back of his finger taps lightly on Q’s cheek.

Squinting at the sunlight, Q covers his face with his arm, and murmurs, “Give me a minute.”

He’s given ten instead, and when they’re out of the car, Q takes off his shoes and feels the grass between his toes.

Smiling, light and soft, Q glances over at James who grins back at him.

Because if it’s there’s no tomorrow, there’s always today, or the day after.

Still, it doesn’t change that Q’s the one who’s always waiting.

x

There is always a job for 007, the way there will always be a job for agents in any MI. Each job is never the same, but is no different by the end. There is usually blood, thick and red, on his hands. For England. For the Queen.

There isn’t always a job for Q, because even people like him in the MI don’t always know every mission carried out. There will always be secrets to hide, especially in an organisation like this. Each secret is never the same, but if found out, the consequences are. More blood spilled by someone’s hands. For England. For the Queen.

It’s exactly these reasons that 007 keeps secrets from Q, and the same reasons Q will never ask.

x

‘Agent down’ is something Q never wants to hear, not when it’s James, or any agent, and especially not if it’s himself who’s taking care of the job.

Q is the kind of person who plans and plans and plans. He’s the one who gathers intelligence because if plan A foils, then there will still be plan B to Z. It’s not that he is a perfectionist, it’s that he _knows_ there are too many lives on lines just for these missions (he does it for his country, and the Queen, and for himself). Blood will always splatter when something is needed. He tries hard to make it so that it’s not anyone’s blood from the MI.

There will be no room for mistakes, if it’s scenarios of jobs gone wrong that could have easily been done right that he doesn’t want playing over and over in his head.

He knows not everything goes as planned.

x

Q wasn’t there, but he remembers a shot being taken when M (who was for Mother) had given the direction to take the darned shot when she shouldn’t have.

He promises himself that nothing like this will ever happen again as long as he can do something about it.

x

“And I was just wondering when you would be back, 007,” he says teasingly, but his arms are open wide. It hasn’t been long, but he’s missed the scent and warmth of his lover.

“The bloody train hates me, I swear,” James says. He gives Q a brief hug, then he’s pulling away to take his jacket off. “I got you something.”

“You didn’t have to. Though, one would think you’d avoid the train after having jumped on it so many times just to catch one.”

“I rather enjoy the crowd sometimes.”

Tilting his head, Q smiles with a corner of his mouth before he whispers, “I prefer having you home early.”

“I will have to keep that in mind,” James chuckles as Q’s fingers slip under his collar.

“You’ve blood on your shirt,” Q says, almost wistfully, and James tries not to let his smile falter.

x

In the gallery was where it started for them when London was foggy and ever cold, but where it really begun for them was outside Tate Modern when London was still foggy but with snow.

There had been blood already washed off the agent’s hands, but Q had still been concerned, far too concerned. For that, he had met James with a broken smile, himself underdressed and panting from the cold. There had been snow, cold and melting in his hair. There had also been red in his cheeks and stutters in his speech, but it didn’t stop him from turning down the offer of James’ jacket.

He supposes, back then, that James had been tired of losing the ones he fell for. Q wanted him to be safe, and James needed someone who could take care of himself.

“You’ve been crying,” James had said to Q, and Q had to force himself to lie through his chattering teeth even as James kissed him.

x

He always keeps a box of Marlboro Red by his night stand. (James knows this but has yet to see a stick between Q’s fingers.) He keeps it for the days he knows he’ll be alone. James has jobs to be done. He doesn’t always, or he does and works from his bed.

He hates the taste of nicotine, but it calms his nerves as his lips holds the fag and his fingers do their job, or his fingers on one hand hold it and his other fingers drum against his thigh.

Days like these, he thinks about how he should have never gotten involved with the agent. Now, there’s constantly someone on his mind that he endlessly cares about. It doesn’t really interfere with his job, but it certainly has an effect on him.

Having a body clock that counts how long James has been gone is the worst thing to have, he thinks, and the second worst is how the after smell of cigarettes on his fingers somehow reminds him of James. Either ways, there’s still no room in his mind for regret.

x

He smiles for as long as he can whenever James comes home to him. It doesn’t always last.

x

“I trust you will have no problem with this mission,” M says.

“Not at all,” addresses Q. It’s not a lie. He just happens to hate missions like this one.

The kind of mission he’ll have to watch or hear James with some other chick or bloke to make plans work. The kind of mission he has to sort and can do nothing can do about.

M eyes Q, but all he does is nod and let Q take his leave. A job is a job, Q knows, and wants to believe that James hates it as much as he does.

James doesn’t know that it’s also missions like these that makes Q breathe smoke through his lips.

x

Q brings them through the mission, speaking only when instructions are needed to be given out. It’s not exactly one of his quiet days, but he’s quiet for an entirely different reason. The people working in the Q branch know of the romance going on between the quartermaster and the agent, but they have nothing to say about it as long as the task isn’t hindered.

But that doesn’t mean that they’re not at all worried. Even M who trusted Q with the reigns to this mission, lingers in the office just in case.

Nobody knows about the mistakes Q can’t let himself make when he’s on the job, and that’s why they continue to keep watch over him. He’s young, after all, and the young can be foolish.

(Q had considered leaving for the night while James would be busy seducing the mark, name: Annabelle Stone, but he knows better than to do that. Instead, he heads outside for ten minutes to smoke a fag, and returns fifteen minutes later with a fresh cuppa of cherry tea in his hand.)

x

“Good job,” M tells him, when it’s all over, and Q doesn’t even bat an eyelid when he starts to walk out of the headquarters.

He does, however, say, “I suppose I shan’t have to come in tomorrow.”

“You may have the day off,” M informs. Everyone sees things, but keep to themselves.

All Q does is continue to walk out the door with his hand wrapped around the packet of cigarettes in his pocket. No need for acknowledgements. He deserves his break after three continuous days of hearing James fuck around with what’s-her-face.

x

He does and doesn’t know why it takes James another two days before he returns home. There is an apologetic smile and also a forced one when they see each other. Q doesn’t blame James. James blames himself just slightly. At least Q’s smile isn’t as forced when James offers him the little statue of Buddha.

But if there is something Q knows this night, it is that it’s him who’s lying in James’ arms, and no one else.

x

If there’s anything else that Q is good at (apart from his job and intellect), keeping his emotions in check when he’s not on the job is definitely one of them. James appreciates that it’s easy to tell what Q is feeling in the moment, but even a patient man can get tired of dealing with Q’s change of mood. While James knows that Q is an adult and knows the reasons why Q is like that, he can never help himself from thinking that there will always be a part of Q that will remain a child.

He doesn’t think that this is anything bad; it’s probably because he’s so much older than Q that gives him thoughts like this. Or that Q has this childish innocence that no one seems to be able to take away.

Nevertheless, James can’t help but wonder what if the child in Q had taken to playing god. He’s fully aware of the potential Q has for both the good and bad. He suspects, that if Q ever wanted to, he can have easily cause more damage than Silva had ever manage to accomplish. Even under the MI’s orders, Q is still the most dangerous man James knows.

x

The next month, James takes a job in Dubai that Q isn’t entirely in charge of but knows more than anyone about. There’s no art of seduction in this mission, though there is too much blood.

He watches James over surveillance cameras when he can (it’s too bloody hard to find them in a country like this). It’s not unusual, for he’s always been one to keep a tab on 007. And if the surveillance cameras fail him, then there’s the tracking devices he has on James that will inform him if his agent alive and moving.

He knows that he doesn’t have to do any of this, that James will always come back to him in one piece or another. After all, James is the most capable man Q knows of to get things done.

x

“You’ve blood on your collar again, James,” says Q, his eyes searching.

It’s not a question of _why,_ but James is replying, “The target managed to grab a hold of me after I knifed him.”

“I know.”

“You were watching then?”

Q smiles only a little, and then shakes his head. “I watch when I can. There were, however, no cameras I could find in that area.”

“Checked in on the report, I assume,” James says as he loosens his tie.

“Of course, 007.”

“You mustn’t be surprised I’ve brought you something, then.”

Q runs his fingers down the front of James’ shirt before he looks up and says, “But you’re always bringing me something.”

“Nothing ever escapes your attention, does it.”

x

James doesn’t ask anything about Q slipping the pack of cigarettes back into the drawer, but he tells Q that they can go to an art museum in Birmingham tomorrow if Q doesn’t have a job to be on. So when Q replies with “you really ought to change your shirt before people notice it,” he really means _yes._

x

He wakes up to an empty bed.

The one thing bright and clear in his head: Four hours, twenty-three minutes, and eight seconds.

They don’t go to Birmingham at all.

x

When James returns, it’s four in the afternoon. They see each other in the Q branch, and share nothing more than a nod. At this time, Q is working on another mission, but it’s only then that his body clock stops, and everything is safe, safe, safe.

At seven, Q catches a glimpse off a reflection. He sees that James is standing against a wall, watching him. He doesn’t know how long James has been there, but he thinks about how much he wants to go up to James—no, he thinks about how much he wants James to take him right there and then. It’s no more than fleeting thought. There is, after all, intelligence to gather.

He smiles to himself when his job is done at ten. It’s only then that he notices his earl grey has gone cold, and that James is still in the very same spot.

x

“Where were you?” asks Q. He doesn’t expect a reply, but he has expected:

“Surely you must know that is classified information, quartermaster.”

When Q finally looks at what has been placed in his palm, James kisses him for the first time in eighteen days.

x

They began on a snowy Thursday evening outside Tate Modern, but it wasn’t until a rainy Monday morning that Q realised they’d reached a milestone he never expected.

He had woken up before James that morning. Rubbing one of his eyes, he had noted that the sun was nowhere to be seen in the cloudy sky. It was a good day to sleep in but Q didn’t feel up for it. James’ arm was loose around his hip, allowing him to sit up easily. The agent had tensed and stirred, but something seemed to tell him to go back to sleep.

For a long moment, all Q focused on was the in and out of James’ breathing. He counted fifty rounds before he bent and nuzzled his nose against James’ cheek. The features on James’ face were relaxed, Q noted easily. He liked how there was a smile in place, too.

He slipped out from under James’ arm and made it to the washroom. There was a bottle of cologne there that he knew wasn’t his. _James,_ his mind told him as he flushed the toilet then made a move to wash his hands and brush his teeth.

(It was a quiet understanding, to him, but an understanding nonetheless.)

x

Later that day, and over lunch, James had noticed that there was something slightly different about Q. There was such a gentle smile gracing Q’s features that he had never seen before. Sure, Q always wore a smile around him, but this, this was different.

“Is something the matter, Q?” James had asked Q, who then glanced up from his plate of food with the very same smile on his lips.

Q had tilted his head and said, “No, should there be?”

“You seem different today.”

“Oh,” Q had a mused for a moment. “I suppose it might have been the realisation I came to earlier this morning.”

Setting his knife and fork down, James had dabbed his lips with a tissue, and enquired, “And what might that be?”

“Tell me, James. When was the last time you spent the night in your apartment?”

“Oh,” James had said, blinking, and Q hummed in reply.

(And while James understood this completely, he wasn’t quite sure what to make of it.)

x

He has never been one to be good with human emotions, Q. To him, gadgets and intelligence gathering is much simpler. It was either a definite this or that, and every gadgets basically worked the same in his eyes. There’s no wrong answers to things like these, because a gun is a gun is a gun, and a rumour is a rumour or it isn’t, but human emotions, well, there’s always a yes or no or _but_ or _maybe_ or even _ifs._

It doesn’t at all mean he understands nothing, because he understands every emotion the way it is.

He knows exactly what he’s feeling at every moment and why, and how to keep it under wraps when he’s on the job, but he doesn’t understand _why_ emotions have to be whatever they want to be.

x

Today’s mark: Anthony Lint. The task: make him fall in love, and gain access to his secret private chamber. There lies: a list of names who, if not taken down, will make an attempt to infiltrate the MI6 and shut them down. Duration allowed: One month.

They both don’t like how Anthony looks far too much like Q, but if it weren’t for the level of importance for this mission, the country, or the Queen (and _fuck_ all of them), then they would have both dropped it and pushed it off to another agent, another department.

x

They miss each other, but at least Q isn’t the only one desperately waiting this time. So on the fifteenth day, James says a quiet “I love you” to no one before him in Florence, to the no one who is really Q. It’s the first time James has ever said this, but Q doesn’t reply to it. He just smiles, and they both don’t care that the whole branch had heard it too.

But twenty-six days into the mission, Q has to make himself chew on the insides of his cheek to force himself to keep his eyes fixed on everything for the job. It’s been six days since Anthony had started to trust in James, and the affections Q has to see just get from bad to worse.

He knows and doesn’t know why he’s crying the next day, but it doesn’t affect the job at all. M contemplates letting someone else take over. It doesn’t happen.

x

The mission only concludes to a success on the thirty-seventh day, and Q thinks that the amount of cigarettes he had smoked throughout might be taking a toll on his lungs.

x

“You’re back early,” Q says, honestly surprised. “How did you manage to get past those traps I put by the door, anyway? I put a lot of hard work into that.”

“Don’t pout at me,” teases James, wrapping his arms around Q’s waist. “I can see it even though I’m standing behind you.”

Q chuckles, tilting his head back. “Need I tell you that we are before a mirror?”

“You might just have to. I’m afraid I cannot see past this nest that is your hair.”

“ _James._ ”

He doesn’t get a reply, so he says, “ _007,_ you will take that back.”

“How crude of you, Q. I was only joking.”

“I love you too,” Q answers instead, but James is already turning him around and pressing their lips together, lightly pushing a Murano pendant into Q’s hand.

Smirking, James says, “I suppose I won’t be taking that back then.”

“Prat.”

x

He tells James he wants to go to the National Gallery the week after that, so James takes him there. _It’s been two bloody years, hasn’t it,_ James comments, when they’re in front of that one ship. It makes Q roll his eyes and say, “Two bloody years indeed.”

(James wrinkles his nose when Q touches his face. The smell of cigarettes has stained Q’s fingertips, and James finally put link to link to it. He never asks Q about them. But that’s okay, there’s really nothing to it.)

“Let’s make that another two more,” Q comments. The way he gazes into James’ eyes sends pleasant shivers down James’ spine.

James knows that this is Q asking for a promise he can’t exactly keep, so he says, “As long as my job doesn’t kill me first.”

It’s more than enough for Q, but he has to say anyway, “Aren’t you one to always come back from the dead, love.”

x

When there is snow, cold and melting in Q’s hair again, there is snow in James’ hair too. They’re not outside Tate Modern, but they’re outside the MI6’s headquarters. They have their hands in the pocket, and they joke about blowing up the damned place. They walk away from the place with smiles on their faces and make their way to Hyde Park.

There, is the first time Q lights a fag in front of James. He finds he doesn’t quite mind the smoke passed from lips to lips.

x

“New Mexico is an _awful_ place,” complains James. He snatches the cigarette from Q’s fingers, and then there’s smoke seeping through his teeth.

“Oh, you think I’d know?” Q grumbles, and immediately, James sighs, and sit next to him.

He doesn’t ask what the matter is, but Q is sighing and burying his face into James’ shoulder as if that’s all the trouble that he has, just _being._ And just like that, James know that it’s one of the days Q never wants to talk, so he stays by Q the entire day, enjoying the silence.

x

They never blow up the MI6 headquarters, but Q blows up a factory in Calcutta, a tower in Beijing, a house in Ontario, a mall in San Diego, a temple in Sapporo—of course he can cause more damage than James ever can—and all the while, James is coming back from Macau, Cartagena, Kloulklubed, New Delhi with more and more souvenirs in his hand, with more and more marks left behind.

It’s not their fault they always have a job to finish, because if _God_ doesn’t save the Queen, then god knows who can.

x

There’s always blood on James’ collar, and Q is always not-exactly-fussing over it, regardless of the mission going the way it was planned or not. This is the way it’ll always be, and there’ll be no end to the amount of marks James has to seduce, or the amount of smoke that will spill through Q’s lips, or the amount of plans that fails, or the amount of plans that succeeds, or the amount of souvenirs piling up in _their_ apartment, or the amount of empty beds Q wakes up to, or the amount of time Q counts until James is his again. There’s no good way to escape their forsaken job—there’s got to be _somebody_ to play god— so they have no choice but to soldier on, and at least they’ve each other to hold on to.

x

It seems like they _do_ go to Birmingham, only fourteen bloody, bloody years down the road, but they are there and they are still together. It doesn’t matter that they have a job tomorrow, or that Q might just have sprouted his first strand of white hair, or that Q still has some or most days, or that James has another gun wound, or that M is now M for James, _or._ They’re still here, in Birmingham, with sides pressed to each other, James, still not one to appreciate the arts, and Q, guessing at them the way he guesses human emotions.

(Today: the day Q starts letting himself believe in promises again.)


End file.
